


(I Love You) A Bushel and A Pallet

by boasamishipper



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: 2010s, Canonical Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Married Life, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Trick Or Treat Prompts Challenge, Trick or Treat 2020, Trick or Treat: Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boasamishipper/pseuds/boasamishipper
Summary: "Only you, Mitchell," Ice says, "could possibly manage to get a concussion in a fucking Costco."
Relationships: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	(I Love You) A Bushel and A Pallet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).



They have sex first thing Saturday morning, the kind of sex that's long and slow, their faces inches from each other, both of them taking their time because the world is still sleeping and they've got nowhere to be - at least not right now. Mav threads one hand through Ice's hair, the other digging into the fabric of Ice's shirt, pulling it up and over Ice's head; Ice grins above him, bright and brilliant, and sucks little love bites into the curve of Mav's neck, his breath hot against Mav's skin. On days like this, Mav likes to get lost in all the sensation, lost in all the Ice that the hand can touch and the eye can see, and he climbs over Ice to improve the view. Ice wraps his arms around Mav to bring him closer, and Mav pulls down the waist of Ice's pajama pants, works his hand around Ice's cock.

"Captain Mitchell, you're trying to seduce me, aren't you," Ice murmurs against Mav's lips, and Mav smirks, already breathless. 

"Is it working?"

Ice licks hot into Mav's mouth in answer and starts thrusting into Mav's hand, and Mav breaks away and presses kisses everywhere he can reach: Ice's jaw, Ice's collarbones, the hollow of his throat. He always looks so fucking good like this, flushed and downright obscene, that it's impossible not to stare, impossible not to get hard too. 

"Hang on," Ice pants, "c'mere, Mav, I gotcha," and he cups his hands around Mav's ass, bringing Mav even closer and setting the rhythm so Mav can grind against the inside of Ice's thigh, hard and fast. Mav moans something that might be _Jesus Kazansky_ into Ice's mouth; he can feel everything building and building at the base of his spine, in his legs, his stomach, his entire body on fire from the sensations overwhelming him, and the next thing he knows, they're both gasping and half-shaking with sticky heat bloomed up between them, Ice's thumb absently stroking the tip of Mav's cock and sending little sparks through him.

"Morning," Ice whispers into Mav's hair, and Mav nuzzles Ice's neck, warm and content. His eyes slip shut.

"Morning."

Mav dozes off on Ice's shoulder, and wakes an hour later to an empty bed and a coffee cup-shaped Post-It note stuck to Ice's pillow. Smiling to himself, he puts the note with the others in the drawer, slides his ring on, and sidesteps the throw pillows on the floor on the way to the bathroom. He hears the front door slam, and footsteps from down the hall; at least he knows where to go after this.

Ice is already dressed and sitting at the kitchen table when Mav gets there, reading the newspaper with his feet propped up on Mav's chair. There's a small stack of envelopes on the counter, and Mav flips through them absentmindedly while he waits for the coffee machine to finish up, mostly interested in watching Ice adjust his reading glasses and look at the op-eds in the _Lahontan Valley_ like he's itching to grade them with a red pencil. "Anything interesting?"

"There's a typo in the crossword puzzle again," Ice says, without looking up. "Sierra has two Rs, not one."

"What, like the soda? Sierra Mist?"

"No, like the mountains. They're trying to be worldly this week."

"Ah." Mav wonders if the editor ever gets Ice's occasionally scathing emails about the benefits of spell-check, or just chooses to ignore them. The coffee machine beeps. "Hey, you want the last of the half-and-half?"

"Nah, it's all yours."

Mav sets their coffee mugs down on the table and sits down across from Ice, once Ice kisses him hello and moves his feet off Mav's chair. He left his favorite _Kiss Me I'm Confused_ mug at base, but he makes do with the one he got Ice as a joke for Christmas, the bright pink one with _Spill The Tea Sis_ written on it in cursive. Ice finishes the newspaper, going through it section by section; Mav scans the sports and the comics when Ice slides them his way, and in turn slides Ice his phone when there's something funny on his Facebook feed.

Ice takes his empty mug and heads for the sink, then to the fridge, opening the door slightly. Mav can feel the chill seeping into the tiles, even from where he's sitting. "Feel like going out for breakfast? I used the last of the eggs yesterday."

"Yeah, sure. Let me get my shoes on."

"...You're going to have to get dressed, Mav."

"You kidding, Kazansky?" Mav gestures at his pajama pants and rumpled _I Need A Holiday_ t-shirt, grinning. "I go in like this, we'll get a table right away. Maybe even a booth if I go shirtless. What do you think?"

Mav hears rather than sees Ice move across the room, stopping at the back of Mav's chair, his hands warm on Mav's shoulders through the shirt. Mav tips his head up, enjoying the sight of his husband's face even upside down. "You're ridiculous, Mitchell," Ice says, and kisses Mav on the nose. He smells good; like coffee, and the sharpness of his aftershave. Mav tells him so, and Ice doesn't blush, but it's a near thing. "You want to go to Jerry's or Courtyard?"

"Jerry's."

"Sold. Go take those clothes off."

"That's what she said," Mav says, then stops. "Kind of."

Ice rolls his eyes, smiling. "Hop to it, Captain."

"Sir, yes sir."

* * *

When they finally get dressed and head outside, the air is crisp and still, and the sun is only just starting to melt some of the ice that grew on the sidewalk overnight. Mav figures he ought to be used to Januarys in Nevada after all these years - Christ, he and Ice have been at Fallon almost twice as long as they were at Miramar, and doesn't _that_ make him feel old - but somehow, every time he thinks the snow's gone for good, winter catches him from the blind side and gets a radar-lock on him before he even knows what's happening.

They've been going to Jerry's since before they were married, long enough to have a usual booth if it's available. The seating hostess is new, a teenage girl who makes an admirable effort at not staring when he and Ice walk in holding hands. As it turns out, their usual booth _is_ available, but their usual waitress, Stef, is off this weekend - out of town for a wedding, or so says Janine. Mav gets the Southern Scramble, and Ice orders French toast and a side of hash browns for both of them. Well, maybe just for him, but he doesn't stop Mav from stealing a forkful every now and then. Till death do us part, what's mine is yours, and all that.

"What've you got in mind for today?" Mav asks, once their plates have been cleared. "Other than yelling at the LV editor again."

"I thought I'd move that to Monday, once the session starts. I'll have no filter after dealing with Wells and Adams all day."

"You know when _else_ you've got no filter, Kazansky," Mav says, smirking when Ice's face flushes, and then notices a second too late that Janine's returned to the table with their check. She tries very hard not to let her reaction show on her face - failing spectacularly - and makes her exit at speeds Mav didn't even think were possible.

Ice looks torn between burying his face in his hands and laughing until he passes out. "Nice, Mav. Real slick."

"Shut up." Reddening, Mav glances over at Janine, now serving another table. Her face is still bright pink. He hopes the tip they'll leave will make up for that. "Alright, so what's on the table, then?"

"Besides the check?" Mav flips him off, and Ice laughs. "I figured I'd go to the new Costco, figure out what to make for the party tonight. You want to come with?"

"Fuck, I forgot about that." The instructors have been alternating hosting dinner parties before the start of every session for as far back as Mav can remember. The first time he and Ice had hosted as a married couple, Mav had insisted on taking care of dinner, and all of them ended up discovering it was best to stick to the recommended amount of wine for coq au vin. "You asking me to be your date, Iceman?"

"Where? To Costco or the party?"

"Either," Mav says, and grins. "I'm free."

* * *

The new Costco is both farther away and bigger than the old Costco in Fernley, which got shut down for good after the back to back flood and snowstorm back in 2008. Still, the inside's about the same as Mav remembers the old one being, down to the layout of the merchandise and who he _swears_ is the same blond lady at the door, checking everybody's membership cards. She eyes him the whole time she's looking at his card, but he doesn't mind - the bomber jacket tends to do that, especially in the middle of winter. He also doesn't mind when Ice clears his throat pointedly and wraps an arm around Mav's waist, in a way that would give it all away even without their matching rings. She waves them through after that, blushing crimson. Too bad for her he's a one blond type of guy.

"Look at this shit," Mav says. "Who has fifteen grand to spend on a fucking couch?"

"The throw pillows that go with it probably add to the price."

"Probably. Hey, do we need a…" Mav examines the label. "A four foot tall wine glass?"

"Ask me again after the session ends. Jesus, you could take a fucking bath in that thing."

"We should've gotten one of these for Viper when he retired."

It's not until they get to the grocery department that Ice finally starts filling up the cart, crossing items off the list in his coat pocket. Mav spends that time occasionally being helpful, and providing his opinions on the alcohol section ("They've got a _thirty-one thousand dollar_ bottle of single malt, Ice, what the _shit - ")._ In the frozens aisle (Ice's favorite), Ice sends Mav ahead to get eggs and milk while he chooses between brands of frozen fruits and vegetables with the intensity of someone deciding whether to fire or clear.

Mav catches up with his husband at the end of the aisle, the requested goods balanced in his arms. "What do you think about this?"

Ice glances over. "I'm not making anything that needs whipped cream."

Mav drops his voice, making it as low and sultry as he can. "I meant for a different kind of dessert, Kazansky."

Ice does his usual reflexive scan to see if anyone is in earshot. "Might be a little much," he says, mild. "You know that's the unsweetened kind, right?"

Mav shrugs one shoulder. "I'm sweet enough already."

"That's one way of looking at it."

Mav pouts, mostly so Ice will lean down and kiss it off him, and Ice does. Triumphant, Mav sets the items down in the cart and takes Ice's hand, grinning when Ice smiles back. "What's left?"

Ice reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls the list out again, scrutinizing it the same way he looks over the newspaper and the new pilots' files. (Jesus, that's another thing Mav has to do tomorrow, go by NAWDC and pick up the rest of the new files so he and Ice can look through them over leftovers and the 49ers game.) He uncaps the pen with his teeth and crosses out a couple items, then says, "Things for the pantry, and the bathroom. And I still need to figure out what to make for an appetizer."

"What's everybody else bringing?"

"Highball mentioned something about making smoked salmon quesadillas. Said his wife got the recipe off South's wife's Pinterest board."

Mav wrinkles his nose. "Wait, isn't South's wife a vegan?"

"Pescatarian," Ice corrects. Mav shrugs. Same difference. "Think they'll show?"

Mav shrugs again. Considering South and Sandy Miller had begged out of going to the last three dinner parties he and Ice had attended - but not to the one where they _couldn't_ go, even though it was on the other side of town - Mav's willing to bet they'll stay home this time too. "Hey, free samples."

They peruse the free samples together, enjoying the chips and dip and steering clear of the purple carrot baby food. It's not until they find what Ice needs for the appetizer they'll bring (loaded potato skins, with smoked salmon instead of bacon bits in case South's wife does show up) and the cash registers are in sight that Ice pulls the cart to a stop and says, "Shit."

"What?"

"I was going to look at the TVs here. We've been using mine for seven years, I think we're overdue a new one."

"Shit, I'm down. What'd you have in mind?"

Ice turns their cart in the direction of the electronics section and pulls out his phone. "Fifty-five inch Samsung," he says, pointing at the screenshot from the Costco website. "With the 4K HD. Should be around here somewhere."

"I bet I can find it first," Mav says. "Hey, actually, let's make it a bet. Loser pays for all the groceries. And a churro from the food court."

"We're _married._ We have a joint bank account."

"You're no fun, Kazansky."

"Maybe," Ice says. "But I'll still win." He winks at Mav, who laughs out loud. "I'll text you when I find it."

"Not if I text you first."

"Whatever you say, Mitchell."

Mav kisses him and heads to the left. Never mind that he didn't ask Ice to send him the exact picture or repeat the specifics; he'll figure it out anyway.

There's a couple of employees messing with the LG TVs at the far end of the section, trying to decide on a channel to display. There are more Samsungs here, at the end of the aisle, but none with a fifty-five inch screen. Unless - _ha,_ perfect. Fifty-five inch Samsung. Mav pulls out his phone.

Ice   
  
**Yesterday** 9:19 PM  
Hey, how much did Jughead say he'd sell us that vintage coffee table for?   
  
$💯  
I hate you.   
  
❤️️❤️️❤️️  
**Today** 12:17 PM  
Hope you have your credit card on you Kazansky   
  


"Jesus, Logan, just give me the damn remote, alright?"

"C'mon, Eddy, just - _fine,_ fuck, here's Greatest Hits of NASCAR, this okay with you? This 'adhering to Shirley's managerial standards'?"

"Fuck you too, Dumb and Dumber."

Mav looks up from his phone to see what that's all about, smiling to himself - just in time to see two cars crash into each other on screen. Smoke billows up from the wreck of metal, the announcer's voice tinny and full of relish as he describes what went down, the hush of the crowd, and that's right, ladies and gents, the paramedics are on the way to the crash site, let's pray together, let's…

It's stupid. It's black and white footage of a crash that happened fifty years ago, probably before Mav was even born. Obviously it's stupid. It's got nothing to do with him. But watching the camera cut to the audience, to the women sobbing in the private box, to the agonized face of the driver as they pull him out of the car, blood everywhere - his knees are shaking and he can't make them stop. His whole body's shaking like he's in the car with the driver, like he's still in the sky plummeting toward the ocean.

"Sir? Hey, are you okay?"

Mav tries for a smile, even though his face feels frozen, stiff. His feet take him backwards, trying to catch up with the rest of him, which feels about a million miles away. His ears ring over the white noise pounding against his brain and he digs his fingers into his palms. It's fine. It's _fine._ Get it the fuck together, Captain Mitchell, breathe in, breathe out. Don't be so fucking pathetic. It's -

* * *

\- Well. His ears are still ringing, but the world's gone different, spinning slowly above him, color leaching back into everything in slow-motion. His stomach still hurts, just on the left side now, numbness spiraling through his whole body through that spot. He blinks stupidly at the air, at the faces above him. Huh. That's probably not supposed to be happening. He's not _that_ short.

" - sir, can you hear me? Say something if you can hear me."

Mav groans, instead. He hopes that gets the message across.

"Oh God," says another voice, a woman. Shrill, screechy, panicked. He scrunches up his nose as she gets close to him; there are crumbs all over the front of her blouse. "I'm _so sorry_ sir, I didn't see you, you just walked right in front of my cart - "

"Ma'am, I'm gonna need you to back up just for a moment, alright? Let's let him breathe. Sir, is someone with you that we can call? Are you here with your wife?"

Mav shakes his head once, roughly. "Husband."

"What?"

"My _husband,"_ he grits out, stronger this time. He winces and squeezes his eyes shut, and takes advantage of the suddenly loose grip on his shoulder to break free and sit up - and then immediately regrets it when the world starts spinning even worse than it did before, even with his eyes closed. There are more hands on him now, easing him back to the floor like he's sinking through molasses; panic fills his mouth like bile when he opens his eyes, indignant, and the stab of pain sharpens. "Get off me," he tries, but it's lost in the mess of noise drowning out everything. _"Fuck_ \- hey, c'mon, I'm fine, I don't want - "

"Maverick, what the _shit."_

All the panic leaves him in a rush. There's a black-and-blond blur at his side now, his hands on Mav instead, all careful, precise movements. The mess of noise above him fades until it's just Ice's voice, quiet and cold and thrumming with something that's definitely not fear, no way, he's married to the Iceman and the Iceman's not afraid of anything. Mav closes his eyes again, relaxes into the familiar touch, and lets Ice move him so his head is in his lap.

There's a hand on his face now, demanding his attention; he presses his cheek into the palm, into rough calluses and the slight cold of the wedding band. "You with me?"

"Yeah." Mav tries to make the words come out right this time. This is Ice. He needs to bring his A game. "M'right here."

"Don't move," Ice says sharply. His voice still has that strange shake to it. "Not yet. We're going to the emergency room."

Mav frowns. "What about the stuff?"

"The manager took my card and the cart, she'll check us out and load the car and then we'll go."

Mav opens one eye and notices, vaguely, that Ice has that furrow between his brows that he gets when he's worried and trying to hide it. Mav feels a pang of guilt. "I'm fine, Ice," he says, and blinks both his eyes open to prove it. So what if the world goes a little blurrier. He can handle it, as long as Ice stops looking at him like that. "I don't need the hospital, we've still got the party tonight - "

"Fuck the party," Ice says, gentle but firm. "We'll skip. I didn't want to spend the evening at Husker's house anyway. His dining room's got no fucking heating." His hand cards through Mav's hair, slow and steady and soothing. Mav squints up at him, trying to see past the halo from the fluorescents. Ice's eyes look a paler blue than normal. Shiny, too. "Hey. I found the TV."

Mav blinks, distracted. "No, I did. I sent you a text."

"What? When?"

"Minute ago." Mav pats his jacket pocket for his phone, and gives up after a second. "Fifty-five inch Samsung."

"With the 4K HD, or the UHD?"

"Um." Mav pauses. "One of 'em."

Ice makes a noise that could be a laugh, maybe. "Maybe we'll just order it online. Come here." Carefully, he pulls Mav up and backwards, helps him into a sitting position, his back resting comfortably against Ice's chest. Mav wonders for a second how many people are staring at them on their way past, the words behind the distant murmuring, and then decides he doesn't care. Let them look. "Thought you knew better than to walk in front of shopping carts."

"Feels like I walked in front of a truck."

Mav feels Ice press a kiss to the back of his head - which doesn't help the pain, but it does feel good. "Only you, Mitchell," Ice says, "could possibly manage to get a concussion in a fucking Costco."

"Every day's an adventure with me, Kazansky," Mav says, but the words - and his smile, even though Ice can't see it - fall a little short. The TV's still on, now on mute, and he makes himself look away, bites the inside of his cheek hard.

It'd be easier if there was a reason behind this. If today was Goose's birthday, or the anniversary of his death, or if he was back in California, looking out at where the sky met the ocean and ignoring the sudden cold choking him. It's been twenty-eight years; Mav's lived in a world without Goose longer than he's lived in a world with him. And apparently all it takes for it all to come rushing back these days are the little things, the things that don't matter: a song on the radio, a movie that Goose hated, a spray strip of the cologne that Goose used to wear. Watching a NASCAR crash on TV, in the aisle of a fucking Costco. Who knew this shit would be following him until he was the old man that Goose never got to be.

Ice is still behind him, still holding him, the pressure of his arms around Mav growing tighter, just for a second. Keeping Mav on the ground with him. "Yeah," he says, soft as a breath. "It is."

Someone clears their throat, and Mav looks up to see a woman in her early sixties looking down at them, the two employees from earlier peering over her shoulder like they're about to be called into his and Ice's office and asked to reason their way through their latest fuck-up. Funny enough, the guy on the left _does_ look like that guy from Dumb and Dumber, down to the bowl cut. Poor guy. "Logan and Eddy here took the liberty of loading your car for you," the woman says. Her name tag reads Shirley, in painfully small cursive. "Are you sure you don't need us to call an ambulance?"

"Not necessary," Ice says. It's not his Captain Kazansky voice, but it's close. "I've got him."

Shirley nods. "Have a good rest of your day, gentlemen," she says. To Mav, "We hope you feel better, sir."

"Please don't sue us," Eddy bursts out, cringing, and Logan elbows him hard in the side.

Mav has to laugh at that, even if it fades into a wince when Ice helps him to his feet, wraps an arm around his waist to keep him upright. "Don't worry," he says. "Not today."

The kids took the liberty of parking Ice's car up by the entrance, so they don't have to walk far. Mav plops down into the passenger seat, and watches Ice buckle up and start the car. He'd know Ice's routine without even looking at him. He'd know Ice blind, every detail of him: the pale glint of his eyes, the strands of gray at his temples, laugh lines and smiles and scars and all. And Ice knows him too, all of him, and still loves him. Still married him. Still holds him like he's something worth holding. Makes him feel like he's allowed to be happy, even when every part of his brain is clamoring otherwise. Goose would've liked Ice for that alone.

Ice glances over at him, and the corner of his mouth curves into a tiny smile. "Idiot," he says gently, an _I love you_ and a reply to whatever Mav's been thinking. He squeezes Mav's hand over the center console. "Let's get you checked out."

Mav smiles back in answer, and doesn't let go of Ice's hand the whole way there.


End file.
